


Release

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (Minor angst though), Angst, Clint and Bruce need Hugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Feels, M/M, Mission Recovery, Sappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A random prompt generator gave the phrase "Not Yet." So after a mission Bruce is exhausted, wiped out, and he wants one thing from Clint to make things better. Clint gives him what he wants and throws a bath in as a bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to lexxorz for a speedy beta read. I really just wanted to write Bruce/Clint indulgence.

 

“Shh. It’s okay, stop struggling. Bruce. Stop. I’ve got you. Let me have you.” Clint threw himself down on the rubble pile and pulled Bruce across onto his lap, snaking an arm under his bare shoulder and up across his chest, secure in his grasp.

Bruce was shaking, his eyes were clenched tight and his chin was tucked against his chest, his breath sounding like a brush on sandpaper.

“Shit. Shit. You got him?” Tony asked, stumbling over some concrete.

“Yeah, back off. I’ve got him.” Clint laid his other hand against Bruce’s head, pressing gently.

“Here’s clothes, Hawkeye.”

“Thanks, Cap.” Clint reached up and took them with one hand. “Bruce. Clothes. God, you’re wiped. Stop fighting it. You can sleep for, like, three days if you want once we get you out of here.”

Bruce muttered into Clint’s arm.

“Not yet. Okay? Rest first,” Clint replied, a smile escaping despite his fatigue.

“Fuck,” Tony said, watching as Cap knelt down and helped Clint shove Bruce’s freezing legs into his pants. Bruce tried to help too, but he was uncoordinated, trembling too hard to do much.

“Yeah. This was a bad one. You okay?” Clint asked.

“Sure,” Tony said as Clint pushed socks onto Bruce’s feet and started on boots. “Head feels like a piñata still hanging at a five year-old’s party, but no nausea or anything.”

Clint looked up as he buttoned the shirt up for Bruce and saw Natasha and Thor approaching with a med team at their side. “Want to take him in?” Natasha asked, looking at Clint.

The fight had been long and in a tight space, never a good combination for the Hulk, and Cap had avoided calling for him at all for a good while. But the team wore down and the giant black and gold monstrosity that had crash-landed in a small, mid-western city hadn’t seemed fazed at all. When Iron Man got knocked out cold, they’d had to call Bruce, and even then it was another hour before they finally felled the alien.  Hulk had been thrown around more than Clint had ever seen before. Clint had gotten caught in a crumbling building and probably had at least an ankle sprain and a laceration that would need stitched up, but when he saw Bruce lying pale and still in the aftermath, he had pushed the pain to the back of his head.

Clint looked down at Bruce now, clothed again but still trembling, and then he looked up at Tony, looking for help.

Tony cocked his head and nodded. “They should check him. I’ve never seen him this wiped. Besides,” he said as they tried to lever Bruce upright, “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig. They can check you out at the same time.”

They made it up and Steve was at Clint’s elbow, gently pushing him away as he put a shoulder under Bruce’s arm and took over transporting him to the med van. Clint and Tony both stumbled a little climbing down to cleaner ground and Natasha just sighed.

“Jesus. You guys are all a mess,” she said as Clint gritted his teeth and resorted to limping heavily and Tony wavered a little on his feet. She put a hand on his elbow and they all followed Steve to the van.

“Not our finest hour,” Tony muttered as he shucked the suit completely and climbed in the van behind Clint.

An hour later, Tony had been cleared to go crash in bed, Natasha had been cleared with a slightly sprained wrist and nothing else, and Clint had been awarded a brace for his ankle and nine stitches on the inside of his left forearm. Shooting was going to be a bitch the next few weeks.

He limped into the room where they were keeping Bruce. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head hanging to his chest. “Hey,” Clint said, leaning on the bed next to him. Bruce lifted his head slowly and Clint reached out, brushing his thumb over the dark skin under Bruce’s eyes. “They said we can both go back to the Tower. Nat’s got a car waiting.”

Bruce just nodded and pulled himself off the bed. Clint watched carefully, but didn’t reach out. In the year since the Battle of New York they had all learned a lot about each other. Clint and Nat stayed at the Tower more than any of their other residences (they kept a couple studio apartments as bolt-holes or simple ‘I-can’t-be-around-people-right-now’ spaces) and the proximity had played a large part in pushing them all together.

Of course, Bruce and Clint had ended up a little closer than the others.

Sometimes Bruce was touch-starved after a fight and sometimes he wanted a mile wide radius of space. Clint would give him a chance either way.

Bruce shuffled down the hallway of medical, and he didn’t comment at all on Clint’s obnoxious-looking brace and resulting limp, betraying how out of it he really was. In the elevator, though, Bruce moved closer to Clint and leaned tentatively against his shoulder, mumbling against it. Clint ducked his head and grinned. “Not yet, Bruce,” he said, running his hand down Bruce’s arm.  

Nat had commandeered a SHIELD fleet car to drive back to the Tower, and she had the front and back door open and waiting for Bruce and Clint. When they stepped out of the elevator Bruce didn’t move away, walking close to Clint. After a few steps, Bruce stopped.

“What happened to your foot?” he asked, running his eyes from Clint’s foot up to his face. He squinted at Clint and cocked his head to one side.

Clint shrugged. “Sprained my ankle.”

“Badly, if they gave you a brace.”

“Yeah,” Clint answered, and he glanced down at his foot. “But at least they didn’t insist on crutches.”

Bruce glared a little. “They should’ve.”

Clint loved Bruce’s concerned glare and couldn’t help a tiny smile. “It’s okay, Bruce. They know what they’re doing and you and Nat always make me follow directions anyway. I’ll be fine. Come _on_ , I want to sleep and wake up to Steve cooking a mess hall-style breakfast for all of us. He always does that when someone’s hurt, and me and Tony both got scratched this time. I bet he makes pancakes _and_ waffles tomorrow.”

Bruce glared a second longer, and then he sighed and they both climbed into the car. “What happened to Tony?” he asked as he buckled his seatbelt and leaned back.

“Mild concussion. No strenuous activity for a week, limited time in his labs, two check-ins at medical,” Nat answered, glancing over at Clint and clearly taking inventory of his injuries. Satisfied, she started the car and pulled out of the parking garage.

“He’s pissed about the lab time,” Clint said, leaning his head against the window.

“Mmmm, he’ll ignore it,” was Bruce’s only answer.

They rode in silence back to the Tower, and Bruce actually fell asleep in the back seat, so Clint had to open his door for him and nudge him awake. “Come on, Bruce. Just a few more minutes, okay?” he said, pulling Bruce out of the car.

As they stood in the elevator with Natasha, Bruce made no effort to be subtle about leaning into Clint. He buried his face in the crook of Clint’s neck and murmured against his skin. Natasha grinned as Clint said, “Not yet. Soon.”

“You can do it here,” Natasha said as the elevator pulled into motion. She knew what Bruce wanted and had broken into a grin and said ‘oh my god, that’s adorable,’ when Clint had confessed their routine after an Avengers op one time.

“Nah,” Clint replied. “He can wait a little longer.”  He ignored Bruce’s grumbling reply.

Natasha got off at her floor with a wave, and Clint said, “My place okay?” as the doors shut.

“Sure,” Bruce said with a sigh. Clint could feel the exhaustion rolling off him in waves as he leaned against Clint. Fluids and a once-over in medical weren’t enough to keep the trembling at bay, either, it seemed.

Clint held Bruce upright as he pulled them into his apartment, shutting the door behind him.  He pulled Bruce through the bedroom and straight into the huge bathroom.

Bruce laughed when he got there. “You called ahead,” he said, starting to unbutton his shirt and grinning at the filling bathtub. Getting Tony’s robots to start the water was handy in situations like this.

“I did. Seemed like you could use it,” Clint answered, and helped Bruce with his shirt until Bruce batted his hands away.

“You, too,” he said, meeting Clint’s gaze. His eyes were tired, but seemed to be swirling with adoration and anticipation, deep and tempting. Clint sometimes worried that he’d tumble into the depths of Bruce’s eyes and never climb out again.

“Okay,” Clint huffed, and started unbuckling his vest, wincing a bit as he pulled it over the bandage on his arm. When he sat down to pull the brace off, Bruce put his hands over Clint’s and gently pushed them away. He pulled the brace carefully, cringing when Clint inadvertently let out a hiss of pain. Bruce rubbed the ankle gently before helping Clint to his feet.

Bruce had his shirt and pants off as the steam from the full oversized tub filled the room, and he climbed into the hot water with a sigh, sinking down so that his chin was resting on the water. He looked up at Clint and held out his hand. Clint took it, needing a steadying presence with his ankle protesting every move, and he climbed in behind Bruce, tucking himself against the back of the tub, stretching his legs around Bruce’s back and legs, and leaning his chin on Bruce’s shoulder. He pulled Bruce close with an arm across his chest, and felt the wet skin of Bruce’s ass against his groin.

They both relaxed against each other’s body and Clint felt secure, strong, and needed. He sighed.

Bruce took one of Clint’s hands in his and started rubbing, massaging the tension out, and Clint took a deep breath.

He felt Bruce’s chuckle against his chest, and said, “What?”

Bruce whispered, “Now?” and his voice was thick and cloying and warmth rushed through Clint’s chest.

“Now,” he answered, and took a breath. He sang, softly at first, “ _They say everything can be replaced, they say every distance is not near, so I remember every face of every man who put me here_ ,” and Bruce took a shuddering breath and  turned, curled into Clint, running his hands down his chest and along Clint’s thighs. Clint got a little louder, letting his voice fill the bath, and he ran his hands through Bruce’s thick, dark hair, along his shoulders, down his damp back. “ _I see my light come shining from the west unto the east and any day now, I shall be released.”_

And Clint sang, and they touched, reassuring each other that the song was for both of them, was the way they fit together, that they were both the young, handsome man in the crowd from the song, begging for release from circumstances he couldn’t control, insisting to each other, here in the water, that they were both deserving and could, at least, control _this_.

  


Lyrics and title from Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released”

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, if I were at all comfortable with writing smut, this would go a lot farther. Oh well. I have a tumblr - westgateoh - and there is very little smut there, either. I like it, but I'm just no good at spreading it around. Thanks for reading, though!


End file.
